Fight Or Flight
The taste of human flesh is… Well… How do I put this? Have you ever had meat that was described as “gamey”? You know, kinda salty, kinda something else. I guess that’s the best way to put it, human tastes gamey… With a twist. Almost pork-like, if you will.
Thinking about it now, the saying “most dangerous game” holds true on so many more levels than at first it would appear. I mean, obviously humans are harder to hunt. They fight back, and in most cases end up hunting you once they get their wits about them. This is why I put the ad in the paper that you saw. I am done. I have been through this too many times. Too many broken bones, bruises, and bloody rags to count. I can’t chase after you guys like I used to, so I have to rely on volunteers… Paid volunteers, don’t worry, I have already transferred the money into your wife’s account. But, you see, now that the physical part of “The Game” has been taken away from me, I have to find other ways to get that same high.
I promise to try to make you as comfortable as possible during this process. Well, aside from the restraints of course. I apologize for those. They are just as much for you as they are for me. When I bite into let’s say your radial artery, or really any part of your femur there is going to be a lot of blood. We can’t have that. There is a good possibility that I will pick up my next meal wherever we land, and in order for me to do that I can’t have you turning my dress into a smock. Oh, where are my manners, would you like a straw for your coffee? There you go, you’re starting to loosen up a bit now. I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about this one, but every once in a while I’ll have someone request a taste. Surprisingly, even for me, the thought of feeding someone to themselves is a bit vomitous, but I get the curiosity. So I oblige, you know, “last meal” and all that. I guess as a kind of thank you I could do that for you if you’re interested. No? Great! More for me. Wow, I really am am bouncing all over the place, aren’t I? I just get so excited before a meal, and can’t keep my thoughts in order, and… I apologize. Where was I?
Brass tax. You signed your life away. And with it, you also signed your last 12 hours or so of life away, to me. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll keep you alive for as long as this plane ride lasts. We can go anywhere that you would like. I mean the least that I can do is allow you to decide the state, province, or country in which I belly your remains. Right? Cheers!